I ask’d him where he lived—a stare Was all I got in answer, As on he trudged: I rightly judged The stare said, “Where I can, sir.” I ask’d him if he’d take a whiff Of ’bacco; he acceded; He grew communicative too, (A pipe was all he needed,) Till of the tinker’s life, I think, I knew as much as he did. “I loiter down by thorp and town; For any job I’m willing; Take here and there a dusty brown, And here and there a shilling. “I deal in every ware in turn, I’ve rings for buddin’ Sally That sparkle like those eyes of her’n; I’ve liquor for the valet. “I steal from th’ parson’s strawberry-plots, I hide by th’ squire’s covers; I teach the sweet young housemaids what’s The art of trapping lovers. “The things I’ve done ’neath moon and stars Have got me into messes: I’ve seen the sky through prison bars. I’ve torn up prison dresses. “I’ve sat, I’ve sigh’d, I’ve gloom’d, I’ve glanced With envy at the swallows That through the window slid, and danced (Quite happy) round the gallows; “But out again I come, and show My face nor care a stiver For trades are brisk and trades are slow, But mine goes on for ever.” Thus on he prattled like a babbling brook. Then I, “The sun hath slipt behind the hill, And my aunt Vivian dines at half-past six.” So in all love we parted; I to the Hall, They to the village. It was noised next noon That chickens had been miss’d at Syllabub Farm. SAD MEMORIES. THEY tell me I am beautiful: they praise my silken hair, My little feet that silently slip on from stair to stair: They praise my pretty trustful face and innocent grey eye; Fond hands caress me oftentimes, yet would that I might die! Why was I born to be abhorr’d of man and bird and beast? The bulfinch marks me stealing by, and straight his song hath ceased; The shrewmouse eyes me shudderingly, then flees; and, worse than that, The housedog he flees after me—why was I born a cat? Men prize the heartless hound who quits dry-eyed his native land; Who wags a mercenary tail and licks a tyrant hand. The leal true cat they prize not, that if e’er compell’d to roam Still flies, when let out of the bag, precipitately home. They call me cruel. Do I know if mouse or songbird feels? I only know they make me light and salutary meals: And if, as ’tis my nature to, ere I devour I tease ’em, Why should a low-bred gardener’s boy pursue me with a besom? Should china fall or chandeliers, or anything but stocks— Nay stocks, when they’re in flowerpots—the cat expects hard knocks: Should ever anything be missed—milk, coals, umbrellas, brandy— The cat’s pitch’d into with a boot or any thing that’s handy.